On seamen’s graves no roses bloom

She sang about
early graves,
devoid of flower:
men/boys
going to war – to graves
Promises given
of earthly riches,
digging graves on
foreign soil

Mariners have their own
cemetery:
Davy Jones’ Locker
skeletons
reaching from reefs
growing white, of carelessness

No Roses here;
only seaweed —
No Spanish gold.
Is it the poor
that pray to the Unknown?
the Rich have their own

We think we fool the Master
he he Allah
Baal
Mazda
We FOOL ourselves.
Evil dies
in the Pit
only God is recalled
So, the Little Corporal
never spoke
of eyes for the Blind.
We were/are
expendable,
as countless
Masses march/marches
to devote anthems of
hidden hate.

Lips moving,
telling people WHAT
the want to hear!
Think.
Brain cells fooled by promises hiding in lies.

Sprawling its horned head,
it kills Good.

Remember: we only hear the hymn
played by Pan
The Untruth
is suited
in Lace —
TRUTH
hides
it’s smile in the grave.